


The Kids From Brooklyn

by ashen_key



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Backstory, Developing Friendship, Family, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Post canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 08:13:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashen_key/pseuds/ashen_key
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve visits Brighton Beach and finds that he's not the only Avenger from Brooklyn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kids From Brooklyn

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to ladyoflorien for betaing. ♥
> 
> This is set in a 'verse where Natasha never went to the Red Room, and is ex-organised crime instead of ex-KGB. Given I'm using only the movies as canon for this 'verse, this is more 'alternate-to-fanon backstory' rather than an AU (and if we ever get more movie-canon on Natasha's background that contradicts this, I'll change the tags).

Steve still can't decide if it's smart or dumb wandering around Brooklyn. Things change, others stay the same, and either way it aches. Better get used to it. Not that Brighton Beach was ever somewhere he really hung out – if he and Bucky made it all the way to Brighton Beach, then they might as well have gone just a bit farther to Coney Island. Besides, it hadn't exactly been a place for an Irish Catholic boy.

What that all means is when he exits at the stop and takes a look around, it has no memories attached to was and should have been. It's loud and full of colour, tourists spilling out to mingle with residents and the beach-goers already covered in sand, English and Russian and Brooklynese filling the air with easily a dozen other tongues. The people are vibrant against the weathered boardwalk, the signs a combination of jazzy and faded against their buildings but not nearly as varied as the people. It makes his fingers twitch for the sketchbook in his bag, but he lets the urge go to just soak up his surroundings. Brighton Beach is _familiar_ , down to the fast-talking men hawking rip-offs that only change fashions and prices, but nothing has an actual memory linked. 

He can appreciate that. 

What he _doesn't_ appreciate is the red-haired woman sitting on one of the benches at the boardwalk. SHIELD had been more than a touch frantic during and after his roadtrip in May, and while at least they've sent someone he knows, he's hardly going to just come to heel.

(Sometimes, Steve really hates Captain America. Along the decades, people seem to have got the impression that he's some obedient farmboy from Iowa.) 

Romanoff's blending in with the early June crowd; no SHIELD-approved suit like some of his tails sported here. She looks a picture – long-sleeved peach shirt slung over something white to protect her arms, tan shorts that are still startling to him in their (lack of) length, a handbag that's a brilliant burst of colour – and far more casual than he's ever seen her. 

Her sunglasses seem to be covering half her face when she looks up at him. “Rogers,” she says, and her voice is neutral, with just a chaser of irritation. “What are you doing here?”

A little off-balance, he tips his head slightly. “Romanoff. I, uh. Came to see the sights?”

Her oddly expressive mouth curves a fraction. “Did you think I was on babysitting duty?” Caught out, he nods, and she huffs a laugh. “Sorry, Cap. That's a newbie job. And it's one of my days off. You going to take a seat?” 

Sandals. She is wearing sandals and turquoise paint on her toenails, not exactly SHIELD approved footwear. He noticed them before, but hadn't factored trying to run in them. Relieved that she wasn't making more of his assumption, Steve sits down next to her. 

“So, you thought you'd come to the beach?”

“No. I thought I'd come visit my family.” His face must have done something interesting because she laughs, a bit louder than before. “What, they've been spinning you tales already?”

“Mm, there might have been the one where you were originally a black widow spider and transformed via mad science.”

“Gotta be careful of mad science,” Romanoff agrees, and Steve chuckles.

“That's not really an answer.”

“I know.”

“Mostly, they say you're ex-Russian Intelligence. KGB? So, uh...”

“Yes, they persist with that one.” She shakes her head. “I was born in Russia, but we left in the eighties. A few years in Israel, then we moved here. My parents have stayed ever since.” Her mouth dimples to one side. “My background is more...family business, rather than national interest.”

“...You're Jewish?” On reflection, probably not the most politic of questions, but there had been a stab of jealousy at the present tense existence of her family that had him jumping for the first _other_ thing in his head to distract himself. 

“Mmhm.” Romanoff regards him for a moment, and then takes off her sunglasses to meet his eyes. “My kid lives here, too. My parents take care of her. So, I'd appreciate it if you didn't actually correct people if they think I've hatched out of a spider's egg or am from a top-secret Soviet spy program.” 

Briefly, he wonders why she's telling him, but he doesn't ask. Instead, he nods. “Yes, ma'am. I can do that.” 

“Thanks.” Her eyes move past him, and she smiles, getting to her feet with a wave. The smile is open and bright, the kind of smile he'd only ever seen her give Barton. Turning to look over his shoulder, Steve sees a dark-haired woman in a blue sundress walking towards them, and a girl running the last few yards in a blur of black and pink. The girl is petite, olive-skinned, with a mass of unruly brown curls, and he catches a glimpse of purple glasses before Romanoff sweeps her into a hug. The woman following looks more like Romanoff despite the hair, right down to the same neutral wariness. 

“Mom, Mom, were you waiting long, we had to stop and help-” Romanoff's daughter's bright chatter abruptly stops, and she stares at Steve. It has been a while since he's been so thoroughly sized up by a child, he has to stop himself from grinning. 

Brooklyn. It is good to be back. 

“Hi,” the girl says, adjusting her glasses and leaving an arm slung around Romanoff's waist. Maybe ten or eleven, her pink t-shirt proclaims her to be Little Miss Trouble. 

“Hi,” he replies, just as gravely, and she gives him a look like he is being an idiot. Romanoff's mouth twitches slightly, and her own arm still hasn't left her daughter's shoulders. 

“I wasn't waiting long, Kat,” Romanoff reassures the girl, and her accent has shifted from bland metropolitan to Brooklyn around the edges. “This is Steve, he's a friend. Steve, my daughter, Katrina, and my sister, Liza.” 

Katrina nods a greeting as Liza Romanoff her offers hand. “Nice to meet you,” she says, perfectly polite. She is taller than Romanoff, and there is apparently nothing non-civilian about her. But her sister is a world-class spy, so who knows how much that is true. 

“And you, ma'am.” Then Steve winces slightly, because Agent Graham has given him the lecture on how his 'old-fashioned honorifics didn't translate as polite anymore'. 

Miss Liza's mouth twitches into a smile. “Liza, please. Not even my students call me 'ma'am'.” 

“You're a teacher?”

“Liza's the rebellious one who teaches kindergarten,” Romanoff puts in, and the attitude Liza gives her in the tilt of her head is so _sibling_ it melts the awkwardness. 

“Someone had to be the black sheep,” Liza says, and then moves her head slightly to look back at Steve. “You, uh, look familiar. You work with Nat? Or, shouldn't I ask?” Her smile is a tease now, but before he can reply, another voice interrupts.

“He fights with her.” The heavily-accented voice belongs to a diminutive Russian woman, her brown and black clothes simple, and grey braid spun around her head like a coronet. 

“Grandmama, I thought you were working.” Katrina's tone is cheerful, but respectful. Mrs. Romanoff (Steve presumes) gestures sharply. 

“What is point of working for self if I cannot take day off?”

“Hi Mom.” Romanoff lets go of Katrina to kiss her mother's cheek. “Mom, this is Steve. Steve, my mother, Xenia.”

“Mrs. Romanoff.” He really wishes he had a hat he could tip. 

“Steve _Rogers_. Yes, I know who you are,” Mrs. Romanoff's smile is a lot like that of her daughters', small and hiding a multitude. “You should come and have lunch.” 

“Wait,” Liza says, and then she stops, but not before her eyebrows raise over the top of her sunglasses. “ _Oh_.”

Romanoff is looking resigned as she puts her own sunglasses back on. What she says next is in Russian, but her voice has harmonics of exasperation. Katrina giggles and Liza determinedly studies the boards under her feet. Mrs Romanoff replies, and then faces Steve again. 

“You fight aliens with my little girl. Save Brooklyn. We can feed you.”

“I, uh.” He hesitates, but he was brought up with manners. “I wouldn't want to be an inconvenience.”

Mrs. Romanoff arches a black brow. “You're not.”

Steve ducks his head slightly, and smiles. He didn't manage to survive to adulthood by not being able to read people, and Mrs Romanoff is a bona fide matriarch. 

“I'd be honoured, Mrs. Romanoff. Could I at least bring you something?”

With great solemnity, the woman nods. “You may,” she allows, gracious as any queen, and yeah, Steve's been around Romanoff long enough to tell when solemnity is hiding amusement. 

“Mom, he's-” Liza gestures. “No offence, Mr. Rogers, but you're...”

“I trust him,” Romanoff says while Katrina looks startled. He's subjected to another assessing look, the girl almost visibly adding in the new information. It's enough to halt her bored shifting, at least for a moment; for all her mother is one of the stillest people he's ever met, Katrina almost seems to vibrate with energy. 

“My first job,” Steve offers, “was being a lookout for a speakeasy.” When Liza's shoulders relax, he knows he's read them correctly. 

“There, you see,” Mrs. Romanoff says with a quick smile. “He good boy, I can tell. And much better than talking with tourists.”

“They're idiots,” Liza says, faint smile turning crooked. 

“They think accent means I can tell future.” Mrs Romanoff says with a shrug, and he knows that _if they are that stupid, it'd be a sin not to take advantage of it_ look. 

Romanoff ducks her head, sways a bit towards Steve. “Don't let her fool you, huh, Rogers?”

Mrs Romanoff looks faintly annoyed, but the swat she directs towards Romanoff's shoulder is too obvious to be anything other than play. “You ruin my fun, Natalia.” The gesture is large enough to make her brown cotton cardigan billow out, revealing a red lining, and Steve wants to draw them. All of Romanoff's family, with their Botticelli faces and darting smiles and brilliant colours and sense of _family_. 

“So,” Liza says, tucking some of her curls behind an ear. “do you have any...allergies or intolerances or....vegan?” The way her mouth shapes the last word is delicate, hiding a wince, and he grins at her. 

“I'll eat anything you set in front of me, Miss Rom- Liza,” he promises her. 

“ _Anything?_ ” Katrina asks, her quick voice sounding like a dare. 

“...Didn't mean it as a challenge,” Steve adds, and the girl grins at him. 

“Double-dare ya.” 

“Katrina.” Mrs. Romanoff's voice is fond, but still laced with a chiding. The look Katrina shoots her is a little irritated, but she subsides. 

“Why don't we all get out of the sun?” Romanoff says smoothly. “Not all of us can tan. Mama, Liza, we’ll meet you back at the apartment? Katya, you...want to stay with me?” There is a hopeful note in her voice, and for the first time Steve has the sense of watching something private. 

Katrina grins and grabs Romanoff’s hand. Mrs. Romanoff says something in Russian, and Romanoff nods before waving her mother and sister off. 

“How long do we have?” Steve asks.

“An hour to browse?” Then Romanoff gives him a sidewise glance. “ _You_ have an hour. I’m spending time with my kid.”

“...you’re not going to help me buy something for your mother?”

“You’re a capable man, Rogers,” Romanoff says, as if she believes in him. Katrina’s delicate face is drawn into mischievous lines, as if she were a giggling fairy. “I’m sure you can think of something. _So_ , Kat, you had an assignment you wanted to tell me about?” 

“ _Yes_ , mommy. My science one, I got _top of the class_ , and...” Katrina is as bright and animated as she was when she came barrelling down the boardwalk into her mother's arms, and Steve just looks at them for a long moment. No help there. 

Okay. Flowers. He can’t go wrong with flowers. 

Katrina is babbling about biology and anatomy as they walk, switching languages sometimes in the same sentence. He wonders what it’d be like to pit her against Stark, and then quashes the thought. Smart as she is, she’s still a kid. 

At the florist’s, there is a lull in Romanoff and Katrina’s conversation, and Romanoff catches his eye.

“Rogers?”

“Yes?”

“My mother likes gerberas. More colourful the better. And if you’re coming over for lunch, it's....not Romanoff. It's Natasha.”

Something eases in his chest as he smiles back. “Then it's Steve.”


End file.
